


𝕄oving

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Sickfic, migraines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27052204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Gil stops by Malcolm's loft to find him huddled in the fireplace. He stays to take care of him.Whumptober: Fire + Kinktober: Sensory Deprivation
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 10
Kudos: 58
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	𝕄oving

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober + Kinktober = this experiment. I have a handful of different Kinktober prompt lists and the Whumptober prompt list, so I'm going to cross them over as much as I can. These came from [Kinktober](https://lustyargonianmaid.tumblr.com/post/627757371721220096/time-to-start-planning-kinktober-fandom-works) and [Whumptober](https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/post/628055505485561856/whumptober-2020-updated).

"Care to explain why you're in the fireplace?" Gil asks, crouching in front of Malcolm. The kid has his face fully covered with a hood, his body curled up and tucked into the back. Gil had searched the whole loft before he found him in the living room, the edge of his red blanket giving away his location.

"You might have been right about the blackout curtains," Malcolm quietly admits.

"Sorry, kid. I might be able to rig something up upstairs." Gil mentally takes stock of the loft’s layout, calculating what space might have the least windows to deal with. The open floor plan and huge windows were typically a benefit, yet when either one of them got a migraine, they were a major issue. Malcolm’s typical grin and bear it approach had evidently failed this time.

"Gonna be sick if I move."

"Alright. Pillows, then. Did you take your meds?"

"Trying to keep them down."

Gil pulls fresh pillowcases from the closet and re-covers a few pillows. He also grabs a fresh blanket. He stops at the freezer to retrieve a flexible icepack. Double-checking that nothing has any scents, he goes back to Malcolm and starts making his space a little softer. "Can I get you anything else?"

"I'm okay."

"How long?"

"Two days."

Gil bites back repeating the statement, knowing it'll come out louder than the kid can tolerate.

"Sixty hours, maybe? I don't know — something like that."

Jesus, Bright. They’d talked during that time. Malcolm had done his typical begging to come in for a case, yet there wasn’t anything Gil needed him on. As busy as they were, a profiler wasn’t called for. When they talked, "I have a migraine" never came up. He would've made the extra effort to come by sooner.

Gil has been in the process of moving everything out of his apartment and into the loft, but being held up at work has slowed the progress. Living together is the goal, but when time allowed seemed okay. Until this moment, where Gil realizes Malcolm has been struggling on his own without saying anything. Malcolm’s gotten better at asking for help, but there’s still a ways to go. For both of them.

"Gonna shower so I can sit with you. Bucket's right here." Gil taps beside the opening.

After washing up, Gil returns with his book and sets up his own camp near Malcolm, leaning against the fireplace. "How we doing?" he asks, sliding his hand into the cocoon, trying to find Malcolm's.

"'s too loud."

"Where are you?" Gil keeps feeling around on the brick. The tips of Malcolm's fingers touch his, and he brushes his thumb over the knuckles. Malcolm pulls away, so Gil does as well.

"I can hear the street."

"Headphones? Hat?"

"No."

"Alright. I'm right here for whatever you need."

Gil makes it through several chapters. He considers perhaps its time to change Sunshine's food and water so she stays quiet. Before he can move, the deep horn of a fire engine and its accompanying siren blasts from the street.

"Fuck," Malcolm grunts. His breathing gets louder as he measures his breaths. He gives it a go for a few minutes, but loses the battle, dragging the can to him and getting sick.

The kid's retching pangs Gil's worry, and he rubs his brow. Malcolm needs a break. Gil bets he hasn't been sleeping and his body is crying out for respite, punishing him through every sense. The loft isn't setup to offer the rest he needs. Gil had suggested a few minor projects to hang some curtains, but the kid kept putting it off, saying they could do it after Gil moved in.

The bucket slides back to the opening, and Gil takes it and cleans it out, preparing it for the next go. "I can setup the air mattress in the closet. Maybe the darkest spot."

"Just a blanket is fine."

"You'll go?"

"No pump."

Gil stacks together a couple comforters and pillows. Satisfied it's about as comfortable he's going to get it, he hangs a blanket over the window frame and tacks it up with pins.

The walk is slow, Malcolm's form stiffening against him as they move. "It's only your head?" Gil asks quietly.

"Everything hurts."

"Sorry, kid. Let's see what we can do."

There isn't much. Gil gets Malcolm into the blanket bundle, then lays next to him. The hardwood floor pokes into his joints, but he gets the kid to lean into him a little bit — it's worth it. "I think you have a fever."

"Great."

"Is it dark enough?"

"Mmm."

"Try to sleep."

* * *

By nightfall, the kid still isn't sleeping. Gil palms his hood, massaging through the material. Whimpers fall from his lips. "Can I take this off? I'll massage your scalp. Will feel good."

"I'm tired. I'm so tired,” Malcolm complains, begs, protests to something Gil can’t see.

"I know, kid."

Gil threads his fingers into his hair, massages lightly with his fingertips. The kid sounds miserable, whimpers and the occasional moan leaving his lips.

"What can I do, babe? What can I do?" Gil asks, helpless to make anything better.

Malcolm stretches for the bucket, dry heaving into it.

Fluids. Gil's gotta get Pedialyte into him, and Malcolm's not going to want to drink it. Water? Could he get a fresh ice pack for his head?

Malcolm's crying over the bucket, a soft sob that shakes his frame. He's not retching any longer, so Gil pulls him into his chest, leans against the wall. Rubs his neck, his back, feeling his fever through his skin and shirt.

"It _hurts_."

"I know. I'm sorry. I know. Can you still take another pill?"

"Yeah."

"I know you don't like to, but how about that and some water?"

The basic question seems to involve a monumental amount of thought. "The Pedialyte? I don't feel right."

"I'll bring fresh ice, too — anything else?"

"Another blanket."

Gil's worried about adding another with his fever, but he doesn't say anything. By the time he comes back, the kid has his shirt off, dabbing his chest with the material.

It’s a slow dance of getting Malcolm replenished and resettled, the two of them on the floor again, Malcolm’s eyes closed, Gil staring into the darkness. It doesn’t last long before the kid gets sick again. Gil soothes him as best he can, but it’s not enough — nothing he does stops the squirming, the sounds, the discomfort.

The kid falls asleep in the early morning hours. He's riddled with fever dreams, shifting and shaking against Gil's body. Gil settles him back into the blanket pile, figuring he can't shift too far in the closet. Maybe they can both get some sleep.

* * *

"Gil." Pushing on his arm. "Gil."

"Huh? Hmm?" Gil turns over. "What?"

"I think I should go to the doctor."

Gil shoots awake at the words. "What is it?"

"My head's gonna explode."

Hyperbole, sure, but no less concerning. Gil rests his hand over Malcolm's forehead. "Your fever's higher. Get a shirt on — I'll get the car. Wait for me — I'll help you down the stairs."

If the request to go to the doctor hadn't been warning enough, the fact that Malcolm waited for him to walk down the stairs would have been the red flag. Gil’s gut says take him to the hospital, but his head says Malcolm will likely argue the walk-in clinic is sufficient. He splits the difference and takes him to the urgent care connected to the hospital, figuring they’ll be close by additional care if he needs it. What he didn’t account for was the kid getting admitted.

The combination of insomnia, migraine, and a bout of the flu left Malcolm dehydrated and in severe pain the doctor wanted to treat and monitor before they let him go home. Medicated, he’s now sleeping.

While Gil waits for him to get moved to a room for the night, he thumbs through options for movers. What he once thought could be completed by themselves at a leisurely pace needs to be expedited.

If the kid needs something, he wants to be available, not a phone call away. When there’s something to laugh about, he wants to hear the giggles from the other room, see the joy on his partner’s face. He wants to be there as the norm.

He’s gross, the kid’s gross, it’ll be another day before they can go home, shower, and snuggle, but everything’s perfectly clear. They’re done putting it off — he’s moving.

And hanging the damn blackout curtains.

* * *

_fin_


End file.
